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I’ve been moving furniture for a couple of days. 

The furniture belongs to Brian’s Gatsby show, and it was rented by a celeb for a party. I never actually met the celeb but she paid me immediately so she’s alright in my books. I only met her PA – she sorted the payment. Janine. I love her a little bit right now. I was able to give my brother back the £50 he stumped me.

I had to get into a warehouse in London Bridge armed with a trail of vague photographs and a shit handwritten list on jpeg. I was given a code for a key safe but no indication as to where the safe might be located. I had to get my burglar on, and after a big old adrenaline kick, eventually sorted it out in time for John. John was driving the van.

John was driving the van for Lady and Van. He’s about my age, but with dreadlocks, and very much not a lady. This surprised me at first. I assumed the point of the van was the lady. But he’s ace despite lack of ovaries. We drove across town and he told me about his YouTube channel. He is pioneering aerodynamic pedal powered vehicles in London. Torpedo bikes. Apparently he keeps getting pulled over by cops who think it’s motored. His vehicle is a remarkably sleek beast. I can see the things taking off, both literally and figuratively. They look fast, rainproof and comfortable. He calls them “velomobiles.” 

These bikes are using the same aerodynamic mouldings and fibres as a bobsleigh. I dread to think what my dad would have thought of them. Dad was driving Olympic bobsleigh for years for the BBA. I mention this to John, who tells me that, because of the combination of his look and his vehicle he is frequently identified with one of the guys from the Jamaican bobsleigh team in Calgary. I tell him my dad was in Calgary as trainer. I haven’t seen Cool Runnings, but it was a popular film. All I know is that the Jamaican team kept losing control and flipping the bob, which would damage the run and take time off any team that followed them, so dad didn’t want them there. He would jokingly say that there’s a baddie in the film that’s based on him.

Today John wasn’t biking. He was a lady in a van. He didn’t come close to flipping the van. We were moving furniture for a starry party.

The party was in a house that nobody lives in. Armies of electricians and plumbers descended on it before the party, alongside myself and John. We arrived and it had just been painted. Decoration was ongoing. For one night, the cameras came in, someone pretended to live there and had a big visible party. Then everything was deconstructed once the cameras were gone, and John and I offloaded the furniture from a gutted house. Smoke and mirrors. It was like making a film set. About a month ago my dear old mate Jake had his home turned into Christmas for a Christmas ad. Snow on the roof, trees, decorations, the works. The machine of pretend turns over and over so frequently selling stupid fun fantasies. I love it. But I’m weird. Which makes sense of why I’m in this Aldi ad…

Sometimes when I’m traveling I buy a bottle of whisky on the way home in duty free. But the last few times I’ve had no inclination to do so, for the simple reason that all the airports force you to slalom through expectant shops with all your bags. Even if there’s a good deal to be had I want to choose to go shopping. I hate being funneled like that. The shop is collaborating with the airport simply in order to tempt purchases. We all have to walk further with our bags in the hopes we buy chocolate. It brings home to me the fact that they must be making loads of money, and consequently that the deals aren’t as good as we are expected to believe. So I don’t get myself a cheap bottle of whisky any more. If I want one I’ll go online. Which is probably for the best anyway, as I’m trying to ease back on the amount I drink.

But I’m back in town, whisky or no whisky. I got home to mouldy dishes in the sink, which was slipshod. I also got home starving. It’s only an hour and a half flight, but you ain’t getting an inflight meal with easyJet for less than the price of a house.

I roasted a chicken and Brian and I shoved it into our faces. Now I’m stuffed, tired and happy. Seems I can still nail roast potatoes when I’m rushed and shattered. This trip to Milan has wrought havoc with my tendency towards teetotal veganism. But it’s been brilliant to come away and recalibrate. The coming week promises to be as odd, varied and unpredictable as ever. I’ve got a diary full of madness already, and more in potentia. So this evening I’m just going to get ready for the week, lie back, blog, bath, bed.

Europe is so close, and the competition in the aviation industry plus Airbnb makes it really affordable. I want to book more gigs in other countries and extend my stay before Brexit potentially makes it much harder. The last couple of years have brought so much joy through travel. I used to go off to random bits of Europe a couple of times a year. I stopped doing it as I always had to cancel meetings. This was perfect. I was being paid for half of it. It was tough in terms of shuffling meetings. But bitch as I might about the rise of self-taped preliminary auditions, it means that you can roll the dice without flying back from holiday early. All I missed was a drive to Lake Maggiore when I put down that Hindi scene, and something might come of it. Hassle or no hassle it’s better than having to come back from Italy for a test of the odds, which I’ve done in the past.

Here’s to a good week of delightful ridiculous varied fun. If it’s anything like last week, it’ll be a blinder. I’ll miss the fellowship we had in that villa in Como.

“It’s a show car,” says Nessie. His Scottish accent is so strong I hear “short car.” A what car? “A show car,” he repeats with emphasis. “It’d be stupid to bring a real one to an event like this. First reason is weight. This is just a load of carbon fibres. There’s no engine. There’s no anything. Even the wheels. They’re the heaviest bit but they’re not polymerised like they would be on a working car. They’re just basic. They look the same but they’re no use – they’d burst. Second reason is damage. Someone gets drunk, tries to get in, damages a mirror – that’s only about 300 euro and quick to replace. They damage a real mirror on a model like this, first of all Ferrari have to go into the archive, that’s three months. Then they get back to you and it’s 3,000 euro.”

Nessie clearly speaks from experience. He and Stu are changing the show wheels on the show car in a concrete sun trap. I know his name isn’t Nessie, but clearly he enjoys being the Scotsman abroad as it’s how he introduces himself. “It’s because I’m hard to find.” Stu is ex army, and the butt of all his jokes. He immediately decides to call me “Big Al,” which I suppose makes sense as I’m, notionally, a trucker.

We are in the National Museum of Science and Industry. There’s a submarine through the window, and next to it a 1959 fighter jet. There is also a human cannonball cannon, which looks absolutely lethal. I’m fascinated and terrified by it. How do you shoot someone out of a cannon without breaking their legs? I never want to find out in practice. It must be a combination of technology and technique. The thing is covered in filth and what looks like it might be crusted dried blood from someone’s exploding kneecap.

My little area is in an aircraft hangar that has been meticulously cleaned and painted and evidently plays host to numerous conferences on this scale. Right now there are lots of people walking busily back and forth in Shell uniforms. Some of them are tweaking projections of oil drops on the walls. Others are interviewing people in corners with TV cameras. “How has Shell changed since you’ve worked for them?”

I did a show about the oil industry in Nigeria some years ago. Speaking to people as part of my research I came across the phrase “Shell build shells.” I was told that, in exchange for oil pipelines they promise to build schools. They do build them. But they don’t staff them. So they sit there empty. It’s a curious thing now to be employed by Shell after some of the things I’ve heard. I’m going to have to spend the money well. I recently refused to audition for an advert for The Sun. But protest as I might, clearly I’m a gun for hire right now. Roll on that gig that means I can be more choosy. I’m blissfully happy in this company though. These vast monoliths – they employ lots of lovely humans.

I’ll be up in a few minutes. “It gives me great comfort to know that Shell Rimula Heavy Duty Diesel Engine Oil is tested to the highest standards on vehicles like my truck.” Tough gig… Nessie has found out where the free food is and he’s making it his business to disseminate the information. You can take the man out of Scotland… I’m immediately fond of him. Ack here they come. Work time.

I now know a great deal more than I ever thought I’d know about viscosity and fuel efficiency. I have watched a man called Frank passionately expound the fine details of real world engine oil testing. You pick up some strange little nuggets of learning in this job. Tomorrow I might be standing on a Jeep in Como. Let’s see…

The hotel we are staying in is next to San Siro stadium. San Siro seats 80k people and is the home of both AC Milan and Milan Internationale. The two rival teams share it, which must be a strange arrangement in practice. The fact it’s there means that it’s mostly car parks in the local area. We were rehearsing this morning in one of them, in the blazing sunshine. I couldn’t go too far afield for food even though in the end I still don’t really know what I’m supposed to be doing tomorrow and they never got round to my bit. I ended up getting a hot dog from the generic American diner, which was the only place I could find. At least it was cheap, but my dream of beautiful bowls of spaghetti vongole, vast pizzas, entire dead horses – that has yet to be realised.

We are doing a job for Rimula. This Rimula job is logistically complicated but promises to be satisfying. Some people might feel that a Rimula job is beneath them, but I’m very happy to get stuck in. Rimula.

Rimula is a lubricant. It’s the new heavy duty engine oil from Shell. When products like this are launched there are large scale conferences and there’s frequently plenty of odd work to be had for performative people. Mostly in the past I’ve done this sort of thing for alcohol. I was a monkey gangster in London with free whisky, a leathery bar owner in Ijmuiden having to drink Sol in the scene halfway through a teetotal year, a newspaper vendor in Amsterdam with free Heineken, a weird sex party type guy in King’s Cross with free Courvoisier. Now I’m a trucker in Milan for engine oil. I’m less likely to be drinking the freebies. But the work is familiar. If I felt like it I could draw up an impressive looking CV for this sort of thing. The more I think about it the more I remember I’ve done. Perhaps I should pitch for it more. I love to travel for work and enjoy doing random things. When The Globe went to every country in the world for Hamlet – God I wanted an audition for that gig. I’ll have to try and instigate something like that again. Can’t think of anything I’d sooner be doing than Shakespeare and world travel combined.

Still, this is pretty good. I’m in a huge marbled hotel in the centre of town. There’s a beautiful jazz quartet noodling away in the room next door. In this room, three musicians are passing the time by jamming beautifully and playfully together. People keep bringing us free food and water. In fact a waiter just dropped a load of Montepulziano d’abruzzo on the table in front of me.

It doesn’t look bad but we have a small duty this evening. In about half an hour, we are going to come and stand by some doors and be courteous and charming to a whole load of people who really really care about engine oil. Then we’ll go off into Milan and find a bowl of spaghetti vongole, a pizza as big as the Ritz, and a dead horse.

All I can remember of the last time I was in Milan was walking far too long in the blazing sunshine swearing like a trooper because Vicky wanted to see the bloody cathedral, and then having my mind blown by that same cathedral and understanding why she wanted to see it. The Duomo. It’s stunning. I’ll be working right by it. Fuck yeah.

Right now I’m in a piazza with 14 theatre people, breaking the whole sober October thing because what happens in Milan stays in Milan unless you’re a fucking idiot and blog about it. But this blog wouldn’t be this blog if I didn’t compromise myself occasionally through honesty.

I’m lying on ancient stones in the ruins of what must have been a forum. Dogs are barking. People are singing, sharing claps, intermingling. Everyone is outside still – it’s end of summer weather. I remember from my time in Italy that the right way to drink is to get affordable booze and then hang out in the piazza. So I’m glad that’s how we are spending our first evening.

There is so much elegance here. The men and women move with poise and dress with care. There is action in people’s bodies and elegance in their mien. People move like cats. I’ve fallen in love with an Italian before many years ago. I’m remembering why now I’m back.

Today was nuts and bolts. We got up, flew, got on a train, didn’t eat, went to a hotel, tried on costume, worked out who we were sharing with, walked the route of the show, talked detail and finally decided far too quickly – because we were starving – to eat at a place that has twice as many 1 star reviews than five star on TripAdvisor. We didn’t check. Too hungry. Internet ratings are not gospel. But those numbers speak volumes, and it’s evidently worth checking. They saw us coming. We got stitched up. But that’s supposed to happen when large groups of British people are traveling. Essentially we ate at an Angus Steak House equivalent.

I’m sharing a room for the next few nights. As it happens, oh constant reader, I’m sharing with someone I met at the golf tournament from hell. Marco. I really didn’t expect to see him on this job. But that’s the joy of acting and the random associated jobs. You build a community, commit to it, then it disbands. Then you start again with a new one, but over time feathers of an old community show up in the wings of a new one, and you fly better. You have a shorthand. Marco and I lived in Pontins for a week. We both bonded on a grey beach overlooking mudflats and an oil rig. We slept in a gulag with cartoon monkeys on the walls.

I’ve been writing this post on the move, in between conversations and stopping to admire beautiful buildings. I’ve hacked it piecemeal into my phone over hours. I’m in this city again after all these years. We walked a long way, through streets broad and narrow. There’s plenty of age and beauty here. It’s alive, alive oh.

But now Marco is dead to the world about three foot from me. I’ll be close behind him. I’ve been waiting to hear his breathing change because I can’t guarantee I won’t snore and he says he can’t sleep at all if someone does. It’s changed, his breathing. He’s deep. I can dive down. I’m thrilled to be here in Milan. I still don’t know what I’m doing. I think it might involve standing on a Jeep. I’m not yet sure if said Jeep will be moving. If it is, great! Chances are it’ll be driven by a friend of mine, which helps. I’m up for that. My dad taught me how to stand on a moving car when i was something like 12.

I expect health and safety won’t allow that despite me being game. Hey ho. Whatever I end up doing, it’ll be fun. And I’m in Italy. I love this country.